


Fixed on your hand of gold

by ladyofrosefire



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Minor Injuries, Multi, Post canon, Significant Hand Touch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 21:11:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21416737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofrosefire/pseuds/ladyofrosefire
Summary: Clayton agrees to help with the rebuilding of Deadwood's church. A pitcher of water and a hammer prod him into facing a few feelings about his partners.
Relationships: Clayton Sharpe/Arabella Whitlock, Reverend Matthew Mason/Arabella Whitlock, Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe, Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe/Arabella Whitlock
Comments: 10
Kudos: 66





	Fixed on your hand of gold

With the fresh memory of the dead rising, there’s want for a church in Deadwood for the first time in a while. With them staying in their graves, there’s time to build it. So Arabella brings in some of her family’s lumber, and the town rolls out to nail it together. There are more people around than he expected, even with Mason actually _paying _people to work on the repairs. Miriam takes over in seconds, directing teams to haul boards and saw and nail. It’s like an old barn raising, and Mason’s at the center of it, staring around in wonder, as though it wasn’t gold and fear bringing these people out in the noonday sun. 

Clayton keeps his thoughts to himself, but exchanges a look with Arabella, where she’s wrangling water for workers and bandages for bashed thumbs. She’d had a few takers for both already. 

He’s not sure what he’s doing here, except that he cares about these people and can swing a hammer with some accuracy. It’s easier to worry over them when there are too many bullets around for anyone to notice. But Miriam sent him to nail the frame for the front of the church together, and the rhythm of pounding nails clears his head even as sweat trickles into his eyes. He wipes it away with his sleeve and tugs his hat down to shield his eyes from the sun. When Arabella comes by with the pitcher, he accepts it and the cup and makes himself drain it slowly before returning both to her with a murmured ‘thanks.’

Bodies are easy. Put food and water in it, sleep, and it runs as long as you don’t get shot. Sharing a bed is good and fine and all, but as for wanting these two?

Well, he’s fucked.

Arabella approaches Mason with a smile that does damn inconvenient things to Clayton’s insides. And work or not, he cannot help glancing over from time to time to look at the two of them standing together. At Mason’s breathless ‘thank you,’ he turns in time to see him take the pitcher of water from Arabella and upend it over his head. Water soaks his white shirt, turning it translucent and sticking it to the solid lines of his shoulders. More courses down his face and into his beard. He stands there for a moment, mouth open, heaving relieved breaths before looking down at Arabella with a warm smile. 

Pain shoots through Clayton’s hand as the hammer comes down directly on it. He swears loudly, dropping the hammer and closing his mouth over the wound. It isn’t bad, nothing seems broken at least, but the skin has split, and blood trickles onto his tongue. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he swore again, shaking out his hand. 

“Mr. Sharpe?” Arabella calls. 

“M’fine. I just hit myself with the hammer. It’s nothin’.” Clayton eyed his hand for another moment, grimacing. “Should wrap this up, but I’m good to keep workin’.”

“Want me to take a look at it?” She calls, and he catches the wicked gleam in her eye. Clayton scowls. Her expression does not change. “Alright, Reverend, would you see to him, then? I have every faith in your abilities.” 

“Come on, Clayton,” Mason wipes a little water out of his eyes and nods toward the back of the church. “My things are in there. I’ll fix that up.”

Clayton lets himself be herded since making a fuss would only attract attention. He doesn’t need more of that than he’s already got himself hitting his hand like he’s never driven nails before. Again, he goes to suck on the broken skin. 

Mason catches him by the wrist. “Leave it.”

“You don’t have to fuss.” He mutters, drawing his hand away gently enough for Mason not to take it personally. He holds the wounded limb close to his chest as they pick their way through to Mason’s drafty room at the back of the church. 

“I really do,” Mason replies, holding open the door. “Arabella’d have my hide if I let that get infected. And yours.”

“...She’d be right to.”

“Have a seat.”

Clayton does, dropping onto the one chair with enough force that the legs scrape back an inch. Then he holds out his hand, propping it palm-down on his knee. The bleeding has mostly stopped, and the surrounding skin has begun to bloom with color. He glares at it a moment before raising his head to watch Mason retrieve alcohol and bandages from a drawer. 

Mason goes to his knees before him, and the breath catches in Clayton’s chest. If Mason notices, he gives no sign of it as he uncorks the bottle of whiskey. “This is gonna sting.”

He lets out a huff of breath and shrugs. No need to mention that he’s had worse. The alcohol does sting as it splashes over the back of his hand and runs between his fingers to the floor. Mason pours and pours until he’s sure he has the grit out of the wound, his hold on Clayton’s hand gentle but firm. 

“How’d you do this to yourself?” He asks, voice low.

Clayton looks away, grumbling, “Hit myself with the hammer, what’d’you think?”

Mason blushes but hangs on to his act. “‘Cause of me?”

“Yeah, ‘cause of you.” The shirt still clings to Mason’s shoulders. “You know what you were doin’ back there?”

“I do now,” he picks up a clean rag and starts drying Clayton’s skin, “sorry ‘bout that.”

“Don’t be.” He flexes his injured hand in Mason’s grip. “This is worth the view.”

Mason lets out a breathless laugh, the flush on his cheeks darkening. Then he picks up a bandage and begins to wrap it around Clayton’s hand. “Well… I think Bella an’ I’d both like it if you didn’t hit yourself too often.”

“Don’t plan on making a habit of it.”

“Good,” he raises Clayton’s hand to his mouth and brushes his mouth across the back of it so gently he barely feels it. It doesn’t stop a shiver and, God help him, a vivid flush from flooding through him. Mason keeps hold of his hand for another moment before getting to his feet. “We should get back out there.”

“Yeah…” Clayton clears his throat. Then he reaches out, grabs the collar of Mason’s shirt, and draws him in. 

The kiss goes soft in moments, lips moving against each others’, breath meeting between them. They linger there, Clayton’s bandaged hand pressed to Mason’s cheek. Then he steps slowly backward. 

“Go on. M’right with you.”

Mason leaves first, Clayton following. He hesitates in the open frame of the church, looking out at boards and sawdust and Arabella going to lay an uncautious hand on Mason’s arm. They look back, both of them in unison, toward where he stands. Despite himself, he feels a smile curl across his lips. His injured hand opens and closes by his side. Then he makes his way over to Arabella to show her Mason’s work. Best to make sure it meets with her approval before he gets back to work on the church. 

If they work at it, they might have it up before sundown. 

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, Damoselmaledisant is responsible for poking me into writing this. Thank you! Thank you as well to notaficwriter for editing. 
> 
> The author thrives on comments ♥️♠️♦️♣️


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